Silence To Regrets
by stranded chess piece
Summary: One-shot. Tag to 'Wishful Thinking'. Limp Sam.


_**warning: **spoilers for 4x08_

_And... here's one-shot number 8 in my mission to add limp Sam to every episode this season._

_What can I say? I didn't really like this episode. I felt cheated. Come on, Sam gets struck by lightening; the perfect limp Sam moment. Only Dean wasn't there to see it! ARG!_

_I was slightly disappointed :/_

_Anyway, again, thanks so much to **everyone** who's been reading these, and of course, to everyone who takes the time to leave a comment :0)_

_I feel like I should add an **extra warning** on this one though. It deals with suicide. Not a death-fic, don't worry. But I need to mention that, because I understand it's a touchy subject._

_Okay, enough formalities. Oh, wait, **disclaimer:** I don't own them._

_Hope you enjoy :)_

_

* * *

_

Sam trembled. A tear leaked from his eye and shivered down his cheek.

The reflection of light from one of the lamps along the pier shimmered against the water, blinking up at him as he dropped his gaze towards it. A light breeze passed through him, gentle apart from its sting against his bones.

The blade in his right hand glinted. It was bright against his pale left wrist. He held it there, shaking… shaking… shaking…

His nose was running. He couldn't bring himself to wipe it. He tasted salt as one of his tears kissed the corner of his mouth. His back was aching from being hunched, his spine collapsing.

The night was thin, and silent. The town slept around him, peaceful in its dreams. Dean slept.

Sam's throat was swollen. It was so twisted that he could barely swallow. His chest hitched with every breath he managed to snatch. His heart pounded.

Earlier today his heart had stopped.

He couldn't understand _why_ it had restarted.

Sam gritted his teeth. His lips parted slightly, and a small sound escaped. He pressed the blade into his skin. It bit down into his flesh, burning, stinging. He began to shake more violently, shaking… shaking…

Warm blood met cold night air. It rained down upon the water as Sam leaned forward, holding his wrist over the pier's edge. Splinters of wood from beneath him pinched his jeans as he shifted his weight. The wound burned, and he burned along with it.

He'd left a note. Dean would find it in the morning.

Sam didn't have any regrets. It was better this way.

Clouds rolled overhead. There were no stars, no moon; just darkness. It sagged down upon him, engulfing him. It wrapped like a cold blanked around him, smothering him.

They'd cured this town of its wishes; its nasty, desperate wishes. They'd melted the cursed coin responsible, and had dusted their hands clean.

Sam's grip was weakening around the blade he held. Awkwardly he placed it in his other hand, his fingers refusing to close around it properly. It nearly fell into the water but he managed to catch it. He pressed it against his right wrist.

He'd believed in wishes. For years, he'd woven them into prayers and pleas to God.

When he was younger, he'd wished for a mother. Then as he'd gotten older, John had grown more and more absent and he'd wished for a proper father. He'd gone to college because he'd wished for a normal life, but finding it had meant missing Dean, so he'd begun to wish for his brother. Dean had returned, but it was then that Sam had lost Jess, and so he'd wished for answers.

But no answers had come, and in their absence Sam had discovered things about himself that he'd never wished to uncover. He'd then lost his father, his sanity, and finally, his brother.

In the few months Dean had been dead, Sam had stopped wishing.

"_What would Sammy wish for…?"_

Dean's words echoed in Sam's fractured thoughts as he watched the water. He held his breath and slit his other wrist, biting down upon his tongue to prevent from crying out against the sting.

Dean had asked the question as they'd stood by the wishing well in the restaurant, and Sam had lied in reply. He'd made something up about Lillith and how he wanted her head on a plate.

But that wasn't the truth.

Blood rained down upon the water. Sam felt it leave his body with every beat of his heart. He wanted it gone. He wanted it out of him.

This was his final wish.

_To make things right_.

In order to make things right, one first had to identify and eliminate the 'wrong'.

Sam was The Wrong.

He leaned forward, his breaths becoming shallower. He could barely hold himself upright. He felt light-headed, and his forehead was tingling. His teeth were chattering. His heart was slowing.

When he and Dean had stood upon this pier earlier, and Dean had told Sam that he did remember what had happened to him in Hell, but wouldn't talk about it, Sam had felt the world shatter around him. Dean wasn't going to tell him because he didn't believe Sam would understand. He didn't _want_ Sam to understand.

Sam's breath dropped to a wheeze. It grated against his throat.

"_There are no words_…_"_

Sam had seen the scars behind Dean's eyes. He knew what scars nightmares could leave. Dean might try to hide his memories from Sam, but Sam wasn't blind to the impact those memories were having on his older brother.

Sam felt the night about him crumbling. His eyes lost their focus.

_He_ was the cause of everything. The darkness that hung about Dean's shoulders was _his _fault.

Every second of every day that Dean was dead, Sam had felt guilty. His guilt had crushed him. It had crushed him to pieces, and then it had crushed those pieces until they were nothing but dust. Sam had felt guilty for breathing. He'd felt like he was stealing breath and life from his brother. Dean had died because of him.

There was _nothing_ right about that.

And _nothing_ could fix it.

Sam teetered on the edge of the pier. His teeth stopped chattering. His shoulders stopped shaking. He blinked groggily into the darkness.

Dean was right.

Sam couldn't make it better.

"_The only reason you're still alive, Sam Winchester, is because you've been useful. But the moment that ceases to be true, the second you become more trouble that you're worth, one word, _one_, and I will turn you to dust."_

Uriel's gutting words were like frostbite. They seized Sam's fading mind. He shuddered away from them.

He'd ceased to be useful long ago. The angel was blind for not seeing that.

Sam couldn't keep his eyes open. The time had come to close them. He was ready to close them. They'd been open for far too long.

Sam didn't feel bad for leaving. He honestly felt like it was the right thing to do. It was time Dean lived his own life. If Sam wished anything, it was that his brother would grow old, and learn to be happy; for himself.

Bobby would look out for Dean.

Heaven would look out for Dean.

Sam didn't need to worry about him. He took a small, jagged breath and closed his eyes. One last tear rolled down his cheek.

They'd had a lot of fun. He and Dean, they'd made one hell of a team.

Sam tilted. His balance shifted forward and he began to topple towards the water. In the very back of his mind, he thought he heard someone yell his name.

But he ignored them.

He let go of the blade. His body fell from the pier, hitting the icy water with a splash.

He felt bubbles fizz about him.

And then he sank into a great, thick nothingness; weighed down by his heavy boots and clothes.

* * *

Dean sprinted.

He didn't think.

He reached the end of the pier, ripped his jacket from his shoulders, and threw himself into the water after Sam.

Icy water rushed into his eyes, burned his sinuses and clogged his throat. He pulled himself under, hands seeking desperately for any sign of his brother.

He'd jolted awake in their motel room, sweating from another nightmare, only to discover Sam's empty bed and the note by his pillow.

It had been one nightmare for another.

At first, Dean had frozen, not knowing what to do. His stumbling mind hadn't been able to process what he was reading, and why.

'_I'm sorry. But sorry's not enough_.'

Now he battled the water. He kicked deeper. He couldn't believe this was happening.

He'd run from the motel room. He'd searched the parking lot and nearby streets. He'd put two and two together and had realized that this time, Sam hadn't just taken off. His belongings were still in the room.

_Sammy-!_

The small amount of breath that Dean had had in his lungs rushed about him in a frenzy of bubbles. It was too dark. He couldn't see. But he refused to go up for air.

_Come on-!_

He'd seen Sam sitting on the pier by chance. He'd called Sam's name but Sam hadn't heard him. He'd dashed towards his brother, and had watched in horror as Sam had tilted into the water, dropping what looked like a knife before he fell.

Dean felt his throat squeeze closed. This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't. Sam wouldn't do this…

But he had.

_No-_

Dean's groping fingers hit clothing.

He gripped the object, and pulled it towards him. He couldn't see through the inky water, but he just knew it was Sam.

He knew his brother.

He jerked Sam closer, and wrapped his arms around Sam's chest. Sam's clothes were heavy, and Dean faced a moment of panic, worrying that he wouldn't be able to get them both to the surface.

But adrenalin kicked in, and the surface appeared before Dean knew it. He broke through, gasping and spluttering. He hauled Sam's head above the water, tilting his sibling's face towards the sky.

"-am-!" His frantic voice was gargled. He kicked, searching for a ladder.

Gagging, he tried to call his brother again. "Sa-m-!"

But Sam didn't reply. He was a waterlogged weight in Dean's arms, threatening to sink at any moment.

Dean's eyes spilled hot tears. He tried to call Sam's name again, but his voice was hoarse. The water choked him.

A ladder came into view, and Dean kicked them towards it. The distance seemed impossible to bridge. It was only a few feet away, but it felt like forever. For a moment they were sucked under the water again, and Dean had to fight to find the surface.

His left hand snagged the ladder. His right arm was still around Sam. His muscles strained and screamed as he pulled them upwards, towards the pier. When he pulled Sam from the water, his brother's weight increased as gravity took hold. Dean nearly slipped.

Sam's face was pale, transparent. Dean hauled him onto the rough wooden sleepers and scrambled from the ladder, falling beside Sam's head.

"Sam?" He found his breath. It was raw and burning. His ear fell to Sam's chest, but there was no heartbeat. His trembling hand fell against Sam's upper lip, but there was no breath.

_Sammy-_

His eyes tripped over Sam's unmoving body. There was blood soaking Sam's wrists, soaking the sleeves of his jacket. Dean's gaze staggered to the knife Sam had been holding before he'd fallen; it rested innocently upon the pier a few feet away.

Reality blasted him, destroying his composure, breaking him to pieces. He fell upon his brother, pinching Sam's nose, breathing into his mouth, pounding his chest.

_No-_

_Sam-!_

_God damn it-!_

In between breaths Dean scuttled to where he'd thrown his jacket. He snatched his cell from his pocket and punched in 9-1-1. He yelled at the woman on the other end of the line. He wanted someone here now. He didn't care that they were both wanted by the feds, Sam needed an ambulance. Sam needed to wake up. _Now_.

Despite the woman telling Dean to remain on the line, he hung up and returned to his brother.

He was so angry with Sam for doing this. He was so angry with Sam, but right now he couldn't think about it, because Sam was dying. Sam was… dead.

_"No!" _Again Dean pounded his brother's chest.

If there was a God, then Dean needed to know. He needed God to bring Sam back. God wasn't allowed to take Sam just yet. Not like this. It wasn't fair.

"You're not allowed to give up on him!"

Dean's words echoed brokenly off the night. He sobbed openly. He bent over his brother, his forehead bumping against Sam's shoulder.

Suddenly, Sam jerked.

Dean's head snapped up, his eyes wide.

Sam's eyes remained squeezed closed, but he coughed weakly.

Dean wrestled him onto his side, and felt relief wash over him like a tsunami as water dribbled from Sam's mouth and onto the splintery wood of the pier.

"Come _on_, Sam," he coaxed. "Stay with me-"

_I'm _not_ letting you leave._

A silent prayer of thanks, and Dean's attention was snatched by the blood still gently oozing from Sam's cut wrists. Now that Sam was breathing, Dean's priority was to stop the bleeding.

It didn't matter that Sam had run off. It didn't matter that Sam had just tried to kill himself. It didn't matter what had happened; the point was that he hadn't succeeded.

Dean was struggling to hold himself together as he tore his shirt and wound strips of cloth around his brother's wrists.

Sirens wailed in the distance, their cry cutting through the night like music. It was the sweetest song Dean had ever heard.

"Sammy," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned over his brother's face and pushed at Sam's sodden, unruly hair. "Just hang in there, okay."

Sam's skin was so cold.

Dean felt to make sure his brother was still breathing, and that his heart hadn't stopped again.

Sam remained unconscious, unresponsive.

Dean chewed his lip. His knees ached from the cold. He was shaking so hard he thought he'd shatter.

The sirens grew louder.

Dean threw a glance towards the road, noticing approaching flashing lights. He knew he should stand up and flag them down, alert them to his whereabouts, but he couldn't pry himself off his brother.

He cupped Sam's cheek. "Hey, Sammy-" He brushed again at Sam's hair. "They're here. Don't you dare think of leaving, you understand? You keep breathing."

Dean measured his breaths, willing Sam to do the same. He lifted his head towards the ambulance as it stopped, its doors opening. "Here!" He waved a hand desperately.

Two figures ran towards him.

"Come on Sam-" His voice was commanding. He hardened his tone. "Don't you dare quit now, you hear me?" His words trembled, but he caught them. "Come on-"

The ambulance officers sprinted down the pier. Their boots thundered on the wood, and Dean felt the vibration in his knees.

They dropped beside Sam. There was a man and a woman. The man took Sam's pulse and said something to the woman, who turned to Dean and asked him to move away from his brother.

Her words were gentle, but Dean couldn't bring himself to let go of Sam.

"It's okay," she told him. "We're here to help. Come on now..."

Dean hesitated a moment longer. His heart was pounding in his ears. He felt like he was going to vomit as the gravity of the situation caught up to him and nearly barrelled him over.

Shakily he staggered to his feet. The breeze passed right through him, freezing his wet clothes to his skin.

Two more ambulance officers appeared. One of them threw a blanket over Dean's shoulders and directed him towards the waiting vehicle.

Dean pulled away, snatching his jacket and the knife Sam had used. It still shone with Sam's blood.

Someone was speaking to him, but he couldn't hear them. His eyes snagged on his brother. He heard himself asking whether Sam would be okay. _He _will_ be okay, wont he_? He didn't hear their answer, just repeated the question, over and over; out loud and in his head.

His knees threatened to give way as he was pulled towards the ambulance.

Sam was loaded onto a gurney, his face covered by a mask. Someone stood over him, pumping air into his lungs.

Dean couldn't believe it had come to this. He didn't know what to do.

Sam was right. Sorry wasn't enough. Not from God, not from the Devil, not from all the demons that had killed their friends and family; perhaps not even from each other.

But it was all they had.

Dean was guided to a seat. He barely felt himself sit down. His eyes were wide and stinging.

"Son, are you okay?"

There was a man in his face.

"Son, can you look at me?"

Dean's eyes filled with tears. He felt like an incompetent child. He blinked at Sam, and then at the man before him.

Sam had tried to kill himself tonight, and Dean hadn't seen it coming.

There was nothing he could do to make that right.

Not ever.

* * *

Slowly, Sam opened his eyes.

At first, he didn't know where he was. He didn't even know _who_ he was. His thoughts couldn't be pinned down, and his memory was fragmented.

Staying conscious was hard. He was tempted to slip away again.

He bobbed just below the surface of reality; hovering in the space between life and dreams.

And then he remembered.

He remembered who he was. He remembered what he'd been doing.

His eyes flung open, and he gasped as his senses became alert. Pain lanced through his lungs and back. His wrists stung, and his eyelids were so heavy they ached.

The room swam into view.

He was in a hospital.

He was _still_ alive.

Breaths jerked in and out of his lungs. His panic rose. He didn't understand what was going on.

A touch upon his arm grounded him.

He swung his faltering gaze around until it found the source.

_Dean_.

Dean sat beside his bed, his hand stretched under the bar to rest upon Sam's forearm. He looked tired, and defeated.

Sam swallowed roughly. He couldn't speak. His throat burned.

His stomach sank with guilt.

_Why_ was he still alive?

Dean's eyes were heavy and sad. They were red-rimmed. He didn't pull his hand away. It was warm, and firm upon Sam's skin.

Sam counted his breaths. He hated every one of them. He was supposed to be dead…

Dean shifted in his seat. His movements were stiff. He rested an elbow on the arm of his chair, and covered his mouth with his hand. His eyes dropped to the floor.

Sam blinked rapidly. He couldn't work out what had happened. Frustration swelled within him.

Dean squeezed his arm gently.

Sam's frustration stilled at the movement. His eyes shot back to his brother.

Dean's gaze lifted wearily. It was broken, in so many ways.

Sam felt his eyes begin to prickle. Hot tears stung their edges. His lip trembled, but he couldn't stop it. His body wasn't working properly. His thoughts cracked and withered.

Eventually, Dean spoke. "You're right, Sam," he said quietly.

Sam had never heard his brother so deflated.

Dean continued. "Over these past few years, you've changed. You're a different person." He paused, inhaling roughly. "And I've changed too."

A tear slid down Sam's cheek. It ran into his ear.

"We're both broken. We're both angry." Dean's voice shook, but he made no attempt to disguise it. "There are things we've both been through, alone, that we haven't yet found words for."

Sam's brow was twitching. He wanted to wipe his face dry but couldn't muster the strength to move his hands. Dean's hand was still on his arm.

"We've both been betrayed and let down by so many things in our lives," Dean reflected sadly. "Our lives haven't been fair, and I can't think of any time, really, when either of us got exactly what we'd hoped for."

Sam watched helplessly as Dean brushed at his puffy eyes.

"But-" Dean sucked in a deep breath. His hand twitched upon Sam's arm. "We've got each other, you know."

Another tear slid towards Sam's ear, down his neck and into his pillow.

"It's not much," Dean explained. "But at the same time… it's everything." His hand left Sam's arm.

Sam didn't like the cold air that rushed to replace it. He managed to open his mouth, but still, no sound came out.

Dean shifted. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He lifted it so that Sam could see.

It was the note Sam had left.

A thousand emotions charged Sam; anger, guilt, sadness, remorse… They stole his breath.

Dean stared at the note for a moment. He remained very quiet.

Then he tore it up.

His eyes once again met Sam's. "I'm not going to ask why you did it," he said softly. "The two of us have more reasons to give up on life than anyone I know."

Sam's throat was tight.

Dean sighed heavily, his fingers fumbling with the small pieces of paper as he shredded them further. "But…"

Sam waited. The silence rang against his eardrums.

It was a moment before Dean continued. "As disillusioned as I am, Sam, I'm not going to give up on you." His voice grew slightly stronger. "I'll keep watching your back, and kick your ass into line whenever you do something stupid…" His lip twitched.

Sam made a funny sound in his throat. He was desperate to find his voice, but it was still lost.

The whispered smile disappeared from Dean's lips, fading as quickly as it had come. "For what it's worth, I _am_ sorry."

Sam blinked at his brother.

Again Dean wiped at his eyes. "Maybe I hurt you by saying that I wouldn't tell you about what I remember from Hell." He leaned forwards, staring at Sam for a moment, before dropping back in his chair. "But… there are some things that are better left alone, you know." His expression shadowed. "I don't really _want_ to find words to describe what I still see in my nightmares. And I don't want you to ever have to hear it."

Sam's eyes were burning.

"The blame for my troubles isn't yours to take." Dean cleared his throat abruptly. His voice was very raw. "Just as my nightmares aren't yours. I wont share them. Do you understand me?"

Sam understood. He struggled, but he understood.

Dean fixed him with a tired, weighty stare.

They regarded one another for a very long, silent moment, and Sam felt every breath that passed into and out of his lungs, every hammer of his heart against his ribs.

Dean rose, and deposited the remains of Sam's suicide note in the trash can. He stared at the wall for a few seconds, before turning back to Sam. "Do you think, maybe, we could just start again?" His words were so fragile. "We can't wind back the clock, but we can take what we have, and go from here." His eyes were pleading.

Sam was still being assaulted by mixed feelings. He'd tried to _kill_ himself. Dean should have been angry. Yet, here Dean was, open arms and forgiving. Sam was having trouble catching up. He wondered how long he'd been out, and exactly how long Dean had been sitting here thinking about all this…

Dean bit his lip, but didn't say anything more. He approached Sam's bed, and reached over to press the call button. "I said I'd call the nurse when you woke," he explained eventually. "I was supposed to call right away, but I wanted to talk to you first… before I lost my nerve." Again his lip twitched, and again the smile fell away, replaced quickly by sadness.

Sam swallowed jaggedly. A spasm travelled through the muscles of his arm. Finally he was able to move his right hand. He lifted it quickly, and caught Dean's elbow.

Dean faltered, surprised.

Sam trembled all over. He had so much he wanted to say. For the record, he was sorry too. His eyes overflowed some more.

Dean squeezed another tired smile. He moved his elbow away. "It's okay Sam," he said faintly.

A nurse bustled in, all business.

Dean stepped away. "You can tell me later." His eyes were uncharacteristically glassy. He nodded to the nurse.

Sam wanted to stop him. He wanted to say that Dean was right. He didn't want to wait until later.

But the older brother was done talking.

Sam watched as Dean turned, and left the room.

* * *

**_end_**

_**a/n: **morbid? Sorry. It's just... killing me that they haven't had a good heart-to-heart. There are so many things they need to patch up. And Dean's words at the end of this episode, when he told Sam he wouldn't speak about what happened in Hell, were so harsh. Or I thought so anyway. It made me sad._


End file.
